I slumped in the window frame, my head thudding on the glass. Wind stirred the treetops and made them toss and roll like a dark sea. In five minutes I could run through the woods and be at Elle’s door.

“You want to take me private tonight, Sweet?”

I could pin her against the wall. I could kiss her till her reserve melted, till she pushed back, tore my shirt off, licked the rivulet of nectar running between my breasts, my sweat.

I brushed my belly. Popped the button of my jean shorts.

sweet_ophelia has tipped Ariel 500 tokens.

Dahlz: Sweet lord.

young_rae-z: ha

dizneeprinz: see how much we luv u Ari ;)

Ariel leaned toward the cam. Dark roots showed through her auburn hair dye. “You are being very sweet. It makes me so wet, baby.”

Wildness tilted inside me. One part nausea, one part lust. This was how my viewers probably felt: ashamed to pay for this, but too horny to care. Loneliness would hit later. Now there was just the hot ache spreading between my legs, the chafe of stiff nipples against my shirt.

sweet_ophelia has tipped Ariel 1,000 tokens.

[MOD]Sebastian: Congratulations, sweet_ophelia. You have set a NEW RECORD!

I understood why wealthy people did this. Tipping a thousand bucks felt incredible. Like a good hard thrust midfuck. Like I was the one with the dick, and when Ariel’s eyes widened and her mouth made a small O I thought, You like that, baby? Want me to fuck you harder?

I sat back, breathing fast.

What the fuck.

This was not her.

This was not the same.

What the fuck was I doing?

I X’ed the tab and was about to slap the laptop shut when a notification popped up. I’d left my cam app idling.

Incoming video call from TrueBlue.

Guess he couldn’t sleep, either. But why change his screenname?

ACCEPT.

I sat bolt upright in bed.

There was a video feed from Blue this time.

Dark room. Red leather couch against a black wall. Some framed geometric print above it, maybe an Escher. Subsonic bass pumped in the background like depth charges firing. The couch was empty.

My heart filled my throat and swelled, huge, choking.

A man walked on-screen and sat down.

Blond, he was blond, lean, shirtless, barefoot in jeans—

Dane.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I blurted. “You?”

“Happy to see me?”

I felt like my picture of reality had gone all Cubist, things not lining up anymore.

Dane hooked his arms over the backrest. Violet veins spidered up the insides of his biceps.

“This is impossible,” I said.

“Yeah, I can finally afford to take you private.”

“No, I mean, you. Being him.” My mouth hung open. “You didn’t have to spend all this money. You could’ve just told me. Why’d you mess with me?”

His jauntiness fizzled. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

“Why did you do this to me, Dane?”

“I’m sure I did something wrong, but you’re gonna have to tell me what.”

It couldn’t be him.

It couldn’t be.

They were too different. Blue was quick-witted, articulate, observant; Dane was a cute dumb puppy. Blue got off on words; Dane’s interest in me was, for the most part, nonverbal. He wouldn’t fork over a grand each night to talk about Charles Bukowski and Frida Kahlo. He’d want to talk dirty, jerk off, and log off.

“Why did you pick this screenname?” I demanded.

He leaned in and his eyes grew cartoonishly wide. Baby blue.

“Jesus.” I sank back onto my bed. “Wait, why did you take me private? What is this?”

Dane flexed his chest, his pecs tightening. A sheen of peach fuzz shimmered over his skin. “Missed you.”

“You missed your mirror. How’s Boston?”

“Way less fun than it should be. What’s all this stuff about money and screennames?”

“I thought you were him. My anonymous patron. He calls himself Blue.”

“That’s still going on?”

“Yes. Which you’d know if you ever read your fucking texts.”

“Sorry, baby. I’m juggling a lot of balls right now.”

“Gross.”

“It’s a metaphor. Am I doing it wrong?” Dane grinned. “How are you, really?”

“Losing my mind. Everything’s getting crazier and crazier.”

“Want me to come back?”

“And do what, flutter your eyelashes and charm my pants off? I’ll survive.”

“How’s Ellis? You two enjoying that sweet pad with the sick nature views?”

I laughed. “Only you would call a shack made of matchsticks and gum a ‘sweet pad with sick nature views.’ ”

“I can sell anything, baby.”

“Sell me on believing things will be okay, Dane.”

“Things’ll be okay.” His tone turned mischievous. “Listen to your girlfriend. She told me she’s your voice of reason. Then she got this twinkle in her eye, like I do when I undress you in my head.”

“You are so stupid.”

“Are you denying it? I heard you have a denial problem.”

“Shut up.”

The word felt weird, but Ellis was pretty much my on-again, off-again girlfriend. We’d spent five years of our lives together, and even when we hooked up with other people, when we were more platonic than romantic, the only face I wanted to see before I slept each night was hers. I’d toss myself on her bed and tell her about my classes: the douchebags who smuggled tracings into Life Drawing; the girl who was legally blind and drew based on memory of where she’d touched the paper. When I was frustrated, uninspired, Elle taught me things. Once she told me about golden spirals, spirals that could turn inward infinitely, twisting tighter and tighter and always fitting perfectly inside themselves, never collapsing. Golden spirals were found all over nature, she said. In nautilus shells and the cups of rose petals and—she leaned close, her fingertip tracing the whorl of my ear—in us.

(—Bergen, Vada. Every Time You Touch Me. Watercolor and ink on paper.)

“Anyway,” I said. “It’s nice to see your stupid face again.”

“Mm-hmm.” Dane’s eyes flickered over me. “You’ve got that sex glow. Just finish a show?”

“No.”

“You look fucking beautiful right now.”

My dumb heart went wacky at this. “You want a show, baby?” I said, mocking.

“I want to do one for you.”

He leaned back, the leather seat squawking. His abs furrowed. One arm dragged over the cushion, slowly, a sine wave snaking through the muscle beneath his skin.

“Dane,” I said, all mockery gone.

He put a hand on his fly. His eyes were half-shut, sleepy with desire. “Let me do this for you.”

I stared wordlessly at the screen.

My cam boy opened his fly, bit his lip as if it pained him to release the pressure. One hand slipped inside and squeezed. My legs pressed together in response.

“Take off your pants,” I said, surprising myself.

He flashed that satyr grin. Stood, kicked his jeans off. His wiry body shone in the dim light. Those boxer-briefs did practically nothing to hide his erection.

“Touch your belly.”

His hand brushed over his ribs, his abs. He stroked the clean V lines running inside the waistband of his Calvin Kleins. Against the fluorescent white cotton, his skin was the color of sand dollars.

“You look fucking beautiful right now,” I said.

Dane laughed.

“Sit down. Take off your underwear.”

He obeyed, and as he stripped he maintained eye contact with the webcam. I’d seen his cock before. I’d seen him jerk off. But my breath caught, because this time he was going to do it for me.

“Stroke it.”

Dane took himself in one hand, his lips parting slightly at his own touch. Every muscle in him tensed, every gnarl and knot swelling against his skin, his mouth so red it looked lipsticked and his eyelashes thick and long, and I thought, absently, of how I found myself drawn to androgyny in the human form. People who blurred the lines. He ran his fist up and down his cock, steady and slow.